


Melting Point

by cirrus (themorninglark)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 20:31:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8461933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/cirrus
Summary: Katsuki Yuuri waves an awkward greeting at him. Yuri feels his blood rising, whirls and whips away. He's definitely out of step now. Not that it matters. Not that he needs any more practice to beat Yuuri to a pulp.


In which a conversation takes place off the ice, and Yuri Plisetsky considers fragments, shards, and space to breathe.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly didn't anticipate my first foray into this fandom to be for these two, but I am here to help fill up intriguing empty tags, and always for gen. This is for M, who put the idea in my head. I listened to Rachmaninoff while writing it. Hope you like it!

The ice is no place for a reunion.

That's not what this is, _anyway_. This is _them_ , facing a reflection cut from diamonds. There are no ripples to temper their waters. Here, the fine, subtle curve of the blade beneath his feet, the hollow, hallowed ground. Yuri Plisetsky remembers. He has worn that groove into oblivion. He does not worship. He has no time for gods, even ones that sing to him like the ice always has. As he glides on, he hears it again, feels that siren's call whisper through him, a shiver from toe to fingertip, and his heart soars to break through.

Yuri tips his head back. His neck is exposed, bare and pale beneath the white light, and he sees him. There he is, leaning over the railings by the side of the rink. He is wearing a baby blue sports jacket and a different pair of glasses today. No less _dull_ than his usual.

"What are you doing here, _Katsudon_?" Yuri asks, far less shouty than he'd hoped it'd come out. It's difficult to be mad at someone when he is channelling his all into a perfect slide chassé.

Katsuki Yuuri waves an awkward greeting at him. Yuri feels his blood rising, whirls and whips away. He's definitely out of step now. Not that it matters. Not that he needs any more practice to beat Yuuri to a pulp.

"I wanted to say hi. Before tomorrow's competition," says Yuuri. "And then… um, I couldn't stop watching you."

"Go away. I don't need your flattery," Yuri mutters.

Yuuri shakes his head. "No, it's not like that—"

 _What?_ Yuri bites down on his teeth. They grind, harsh in his mouth, before he swallows and breathes. The tip of his skate bites down too, onto the shimmering surface below. An unforgiving mirror. _Am I not good enough to be stared at? You lie, Katsuki Yuuri._

"Those movements. I know them. You've been taking ballet lessons, huh?"

It's not really a question, and his quiet certainty makes Yuri pause, frowning.

"So what if I have?" he throws back at him. Yuuri, of all things, smiles, self-deprecation dancing on the corners of his lips.

"I used to, too, when I was growing up in Hasetsu. Do you remember Minako-sensei? She taught me. Ahh, it was _painful_!"

"That's because it was _you_." Yuri smirks, and reaches up to tug his hair loose from its half-ponytail. It tumbles down round his face like a curtain of dusty gold. " _I'm_ a natural. Lilia chose _me_."

It's only a half-lie. He's better, he's sure; _of course_ he's better than Yuuri ever was, for this is what he was born to do and he has given _everything_ for it. What does Yuuri know of sacrifice? He has let all those chances of his slip through his fingers, and still he has Victor, _Victor_ , on a silver platter—

"Minako-sensei taught me one more thing, recently," adds Yuuri. His voice is mild. The way he studies Yuri isn't.

Yuri moves closer to the sidelines and crosses his arms. "Yeah?"

"I saw it in your skating. I think you learned it too. How to move, like…"

Yuuri does not elaborate, not in words. He looks like he _tries_ , but they do not come readily to the tip of his tongue. His is a different sort of music. The lights spark in his eyes, behind his glasses; a slow, steady glow, and with an elegant gesture Yuuri takes his hand off the rail, bends down to pick up his skating blades.

The simmering burn in the pit of Yuri's stomach feels like it might explode.

"I'm not training to be a _prima ballerina_ because of _you_ ," he snaps. "I'm not trying to _be_ you, _Yuuri_."

It breaks like frostbite, that name; _there's no space for two of us_ , he wants to say again, but he's said it before and lost, and he will not lose another time.

Yuuri nods.

"I know," he says. His expression softens. "Yuko and everyone's cheering for you too, by the way."

" _Huh?_ " Yuri scowls. "Why would you tell me something like that? They're cheering for _you_. I don't _need_ —"

"Can't they cheer for both of us?"

It's Yuuri interrupting him, cutting him off, that catches Yuri off-guard more than anything else. He's glimpsed that side of him on the ice. The side that sticks, stubbornly, to a heart of glass that refuses to shatter, cracks and all. He has seen him bleed and stay on his feet. That great, clumsy fool. Sometimes, Yuri thinks he can see right through this _simpleton_ , and then there are moments like this when he does not understand him at all, and it gets on his nerves more than he cares to say.

He lets out a rough exhale, irritable, and steps back. _No space._

"When I was your age, I thought I was skating alone. But I wasn't. There were a lot of people supporting me. So…"

Yuuri scratches his head, looks a little sheepish. Yuri flicks his gaze downwards, briefly, sharply. His hair hides his eyes.

"I guess I just really wanted to tell you. It would have been great if someone told me."

"Hmph. Are you my _mentor_ now? This just gets better."

"Um, I don't think I could be _anyone's_ mentor, I'm—"

"Thanks," says Yuri, abrupt. "Now. Let me practise. Get lost."

Yuuri's eyes widen, warm like one of his hot springs. He smiles. Nods again.

"See you tomorrow, Yuri. Do your best."

His cheeks are flushed, light pink, and it's the sight of it that makes Yuri suddenly aware of the warmth in his own face, and he knows this feeling, this thrill of competition, everything contained in those words of encouragement—kindness, but _more_ , too—

_Tomorrow. Tomorrow, we skate. Bring it. Show me what you've got._

This is _ice_ , not glass.

He spins on his heel as Yuuri turns to leave. The shards go flying. Yuri could not say where they lodge.

With his accursed luck, they will not melt, and he will carry them in his body when he walks away.

 

 

 


End file.
